Ronnie Day

I Have Moved...

2008-04-16T04:25:16Z

I will no longer be blogging here.

I have moved to ronniewrites.com

Update you bookmarks!
:)

Happy Halloween!

2007-10-31T08:05:45Z

It’s officially Halloween, and I’m taking this moment to reflect briefly.

It seems to me that when we’re young, it’s about candy. When we’re young it’s about fake blood and orange ribbons; and it’s about feeling that strange energy in the air. Then, as we grow older and as we begin to both recognize and fear death, Halloween becomes “spooky”. But is that something we create ourselves, or is it just some manufactured Hollywood bullshit?

The first scary movies, most of which still define our Halloween tradition, borrowed primarily from the lush archetypes of folklore and literature. Tinsel Town tore page after page from great works such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. However, many of the intricacies were lost in these silver screen sub-standards. Complex characters, such as the candidly relatable Victor Frankenstein, were reduced to popular culture puke, and it just got worse.

Now we’re taught to think that Halloween is about lunacy and murder. The movies of today are becoming increasingly graphic, as are the images associated with the holiday. Well I ask: what ever happened to those early days? …And I don’t mean the 1800’s… I want to know what happened to the candy, and that sense of mystery we all knew before our mommies let us watch that second-rate Hollywood crap?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that Halloween should be pansies and perfume. I’m not saying that at all… I agree that Halloween resonates through our darkest levels of being. To me, Halloween has always been about celebrating that darkness—that mystery. It’s about going out into the night, amidst all of those strange and sometimes scary symbols; and it’s about having a good time out there. It’s about dancing with the dark, and accepting, if only for one night, that we don’t know it all--that the mysteries of life are a big part of what make it worth living in the first place.

If I have a point at all (which I don’t) …it goes as follows: This Halloween, be an individual… Not a sluttish cop, and not Mr. “I’m too cool to dress up”… Be something that’s meaningful to you. And moreover, not just today, but every day.

Happy Halloween!

Soldier Boy (live)

2007-10-03T20:13:35Z

I can’t imagine that there will be much of an audience for this right now, and that’s exactly why I’ll be posting some new stuff here. I’d much prefer to share a few tunes with a smaller, more intimate and compassionate audience.

The way I see it, if you’ve been so kind as to read my ramblings in the past, I take that as a sign of caring… And so, because you care, I’d like to invite you to sample some of my new material.

...Thanks for checking in, and I hope you enjoy these tunes. This one is called “Soldier Boy”.

(And sure... You could view HTML, copy paste the file URL, and download this live recording... I don't mind if you do, but only ask that you support my future retail releases. Thanks!)

Soldier Boy

Soldier Boy
Oh, don’t be sad
You were born to see much more than that
You think your heart is strong
But it’s not
It’s just lonely

Soldier Boy
So young and brave
So quick to love
So quick to hate
You didn’t stand a chance
It’s not your fault
It’s your country’s

See, Freedom is older than America
It’s being true to yourself
Then showing everyone else
Your kind of love

Oh, yeah, Freedom is older than America
And I’d bet if there’s a god
He’d bless each and every one of us

Soldier Boy
You’re just defending
Some plastics and concrete and deficit spending
It’s not my right to sing
That you’re willing to die for

But Soldier Boy
You’re not to blame
You’re my brother
So I love you just the same
Our parents taught us wrong
Though they tried their best
Of this I’m sure

See, Freedom is older than America
It’s in the stars and the land
And the trees and the sands and the dust

Oh yeah, Freedom, it’s older than America
And I’d bet if there’s a god
He’d bless each and every one of us

Because Freedom is old and she’s tough
She don’t need your guns
She needs your love.

Yeah, Freedom is old and tough
She don’t need your guns
She just needs your love.

Erosion

2007-09-10T21:52:15Z

May my duty be to Love
How ever,
And Ever,
For every form thereof

and that my heart
May turn to stone
so let it break

for hearts like bones
Are of the Earth
and time will take
What Time will Take.

Thus dies alone
The man who’s Worth
Cannot so break.

Thus dies alone
The man who’s Mirth
knows no mistake.

Stay In School... (but not really)

2007-09-03T21:22:20Z

I haven’t set foot in a school since I was sixteen, but I still take time each morning for study. I didn’t leave school because I thought I knew everything. I also didn’t leave because of a disinterest in intellectual pursuits. I left because it’s my opinion that education is something sacred on the individual level. And even if there are certain truths so universal and necessary by nature as to warrant their mandated teaching, it certainly isn’t the sort of truth they were talking about in my classrooms. So, I left that path behind for someone else to take, and continued down my own.

This morning, for instance, I’m reading a translated copy of Arnold Schoenberg’s Theory of Harmony. As Laguna Beach to the teenage socialite seems deeply stimulating, so to me is the mind of Mr. Schoenberg. I sit in silent embrace, holding his every word under the light of my own reason. And then, through the depths of my focus, from the chasm of my bowels, I sense something conspiring to usurp my attention. I ignore the guttural trembling and revert focus to the text in front of me.

I strain to maintain my mindfulness, but the presence of something in my body is becoming determined. I know this feeling. It’s The Morning Shit.

Some mornings, especially those that follow a night of heavy munching, come with a certain surprise. Sure, you’d like to check your e-mail, heat the coffee, and catch the weather, but an inward tempest in the night has run a shit aground and fate will not allow.

You’re minding your new-day duty, mid thought, mid breath, and then it comes—that new day doodie. That very thunder which shook the walls at Jericho, the holy wrath of God Almighty is made manifest in your ass. And like a fecal battering ram it knocks.

The Morning Shit cannot be put off. If you can hold it in for a few, it’s not The Morning Shit; it’s just some dump that happened to come early in the day… And so, having recognized it for it’s true self, I hastily bookmark my page and hobble towards the bathroom.

Now, sitting on the toilet, marveling at the sheer mass of matter my body managed to mature and musing upon the very essence of godhead found within this seemingly insignificant brown lump of the cosmos, I realize again what I have always known… There are some things that they just don’t teach you in school.

ronnieday @ 2007-08-13T16:06:00

2007-08-13T23:21:20Z

It looks a bit neurotic written out like this, all naked and bare and boney, but I swear it makes a proper frame for some super classy music... I’ll set some time aside to produce this one soon, so that you guys can listen to a derisory streaming version on myspace and think to yourself, “If only people bought music, Ronnie could release this on a CD, and I could hear in Hi-Fi the warm and sultry tones of his heart manifest to tape”.

Someday, as in days past, people will value commercialized music and the effort behind it… Until then, I think I’ll save myself some time and money, happy to release lyrics alone on livejournal. Feel free to convert this to .RTF and share it on Limewire ( :

--------------------- * ---------------------

Oh, sure, I’ve made a few mistakes
I gave my soul up for the rat race
But now I see the nature of my ways
I want to be a better man

I was young and filed with doubt
And so I chased this dream I’d heard about
I was a rock cliché, the very down and out
But what I do, it’s not who I am.

I was tumbling…
I was falling…

But now I'm Nowhere
And I am No One
And I feel so alive
I could cry out
I don’t need to be
Asleep to dream
‘Cause I am me
I am me,
I am Me!

And I’ve got darkness
No, I’m not flawless
But I know now
I can change
I’ll take the bad
And rearrange it
I am honest
And proud just
To Be
I am me
I am me,
I am Me!

Oh, I’ve known Fault
And I’ve known Fun
I even loved this girl more than myself once
But when you don’t love yourself
Those girls tend to run
I was so young, oh, I was so young…

I was tumbling...
I was falling…

But now I'm Nowhere
And I am No One
And I feel so alive
I could cry out
I don’t need to be
Asleep to dream
‘Cause I am me
I am me,
I am Me!

And I’ve got darkness
No, I’m not flawless
But I know now
I can change
I’ll take the bad
And rearrange it
I am honest
And proud just
To Be
I am me
I am me,
I am Me!

I am me,

In the darkness of the night
In the silver summer starlight

I am me,

When my hand runs through your hair
When your warm embrace brings both our hearts together.

I am me,
I am me,
I am me!

--------------------- * ---------------------

On The Road...

2007-08-03T18:21:13Z

A traveling minstrel
A Song On The Road
We’re all singing a Story
Making it up as we go
But now and then we get lost
In our own stylish show
And though we’re supposed to go on
We feel inclined to go home

You’ll see dualistic truth
In that Past and Future light
And unsure, you’ll have to choose
‘tween doing wrong and doing right
And you’re destined to lose
Whether you run or stand to fight
Yet there’s something to be gained
And that’s hindsight
True Hindsight

So think back
Because I’m sure you have been here before
Where the Change seemed an Ocean
From your place on the Shore
Did you already know
What you needed to swim?
I’ll bet you found it within
Never elsewhere Truth’s been
Oh, sure, you found it within
Never elsewhere Truth’s been

This Road seems longer than life
When it twists and it spins
But there’s a map deep within us
Never elsewhere Truth’s been.

Skate Or Die...

2007-08-01T19:11:30Z

“You can’t afford to get hurt,” one voice says.
Then, another joins the discourse, “You haven’t paid for health insurance.”
“We’ll play it safe,” a third voice reasons.
“That seems reasonable,” the second voice agrees. And the discussion rolls on, as I, on my skateboard, roll on with it.

These are the voices in your head. Sometimes they can serve to keep you company, and other times they seem to reveal inner truth, guiding you in a decision making process. Then, there are other times still when it would be best for them to all go away. For example, though it may be interesting, I don’t feel that my writing would be very effectual with all of those different voices present. Writing is an exercise in focus.

Another such mental exercise is skateboarding, and that’s what I’m really trying to get at: skateboarding as a healer, as an exercise in self-awareness. I know it sounds like a non sequitur, skateboarding-- enemy of county hospital ERs everywhere-- is in fact a healer… But I’ve been at it most of my life and truly believe in it’s remedial powers.

It’s not that other methods of therapy are excluded from my routine. I practice yoga and meditation every day. I create music and write, play chess, tennis, run and read. All of these activities provide a great arena in which one may challenge their ability to focus, but none in quite the same way as skateboarding. Skateboarding has an element of fear and physical consequence that puts it into a different category.

In order to advance in the art of skateboarding, one must be able to focus their mind free of any stray thoughts. And if you think that chess demands concentration, imagine playing a game atop a two-story vertical wall of concrete with four wheels under your feet. There is an element of fear to overcome, different from the fear associated with other sports. When playing chess, for example, there may be a fear of failure. You want to crush your opponent, and worry that he or she may take that glory from you. This is what I will call Outward Fear, and it is what drives most sports... but not skateboarding.

When skating, it is only you and your board, and those two things must be at one in your mind, so that really, there is only You-- The Self. All fear comes from within, from years of remembered bruises, and the possibility of this happening again. It is that exact fear that must be tamed, and I will call this fear the Inner Fear.

I think that this sort of fear is much more important to acknowledge than say, that first one I mentioned (Outward Fear). It seems most people today are concerned with their fellow man, with the Outward Fear, the fear of inadequacy in the eyes of others. Most folks focus on advancing in school, in the workplace, in society (team sports), all the while ignoring their own inner struggle. It’s that fear of bruises, of falls remembered, that we need to be focusing on more—the Inner Fear. If we’re not living each moment conscious of those mistakes, we’re destined to repeat them. However, if we allow those bruises to stir up a fright storm, if we allow them to exist without meaning, then they will also begin to control our destinies.

It is through focus, through exercises in self-awareness, that we can begin to control this Inner Fear and use it in very powerful and practical ways. By controlling our Inner Fear, by finding focus, we can learn to deal with our falls and avoid future slip-ups.

Most falls in skateboarding seem to take place when a lapse in focus occurs. One of my own downfalls is my tendency towards self-consciousness, as opposed to self-awareness. When other people, strangers, cute girls, come to the skatepark, I become aware not only of myself, but of them, too. Then, I’m not only fighting to control that Inner Fear, I’ve also got Outward Fear, a need to impress. As soon as this Outward Fear becomes an element, the self, that sense of being at one with the board, that stillness of mind—it all breaks down. Then, because you’ve become a slave to your fear, because you’ve lost self-awareness, you find yourself falling fifteen feet through the air from a cement vert transfer, and you lose functionality in the right half of your body for three weeks, along with a gallon of blood. You hesitate to visit the park again, and when you eventually do, everything seems much bigger—so much more than you can handle, though you know you’ve done it all before.

Some people get a few scrapes and bruises like this, and not realizing that it came as a result of submission to Outward Fear, and not realizing that it is within them to find self-awareness once again, they give up. Eventually, they decide that it would be best for them to sit on the side and watch, to leave the skating to the skaters, the living to the living.

A skateboarder would never give up like that, though. A true skater understands Zen and focus and self-awareness, confidence and possession of the moment, the now. A real skater knows how to learn from the past, how to overcome fear and own the present moment fully. I’ll grant that most of them couldn’t find the words to describe this knowledge in their slang vernacular, but dude, you’ve gotta believe me. Heshin’ it up is hella cool.

I myself just got back from an early morning skateboarding session, and aside from my bruised and bloody hand, and the cut on my hip, I feel absolutely wonderful. I didn’t submit to any Outward Fear this time, there were no transient losses of Zen focus… I just fell. It was early, and the park hadn’t been swept yet, so a small stick lodged itself into my wheel. Sometimes you just fall. That’s part of it, too… And you’ve just got to laugh. Such is life: Skate or Die.

Mrs. Now.

2007-07-31T09:43:32Z

I don't know if you guys get much from lone lyrics, unaccompanied by melody and chord structure... I know it rarely does much for me... But like I said, I'm experiencing a brief shortage of public statements, so this will have to do for now. Speaking of "now", this is a song about finding Her.

Misses Now

You can close your eyes
Even lie if you’d like
You can beat your heart loud
Like a drum
Travel the whole world wide
To sing of Right and Wrong
But in traveling on
It won’t take long
To forget where
You’re coming from

Mrs. Now
Where’ve you been?
I must have been sleeping
Caught in a dream again

I went down
South with Sin
Not in the moment
Not into Anything

But now I’m back, Girl
And I am listening…
Have you missed me?

You can drink every night
Snort some lines
Take to flight
Be another brick
Upon The Wall
Fuck till you can’t know Love
Not even if you try
Then, all your hate
It permeates
Into the watchful world’s eyes.

Mrs. Now
Where’ve you been?
I must have been sleeping
Caught in a dream again

I went down
South with Sin
Not in the moment
Not in the anything

But now I’m back, Girl
And I am listening…
Have you missed me?

It’s hard to believe in much
Until you have seen it crushed
Yeah, you don’t believe in much
Until you can fall and then get back up

Well I believe in me,
Right here and now,
And that’s enough.

This Time Around...

2007-07-29T21:05:06Z

Recently my writing has turned inward, and the things that I’ve been thinking about are not out in the world to be observed passively, but are alive right down in the core of who I am. Because I’d rather not share these thoughts apart from the revelations I’m sure they will eventually resolve to, I’ve not posted much of anything in here. In lieu of some otherwise lengthy rambling, I’ll leave you with the lyrics to a song that I wrote about it.

I was young
Working hard
I got lost
But I didn’t care
‘Cause I believed
That I would see
The godhead

Sold my soul
A million bucks
I found some money
But I lost my Love
And having seen
I now believe what mom said

She said love is a heart at rest
Not some illusionary Friend
Or Her tenderness
Well, this time around,
I think I finally found it
This time around,
I think I finally found it

That was then
This is now
A fresh new day
But that same old stale doubt
And still the dream of that
Yet unseen godhead

Thought I knew
I guess that’s life
You change you’re mind
You change your wrong and right
Sometimes things
Seem to be causeless

But cause is a state of mind
We are the Gods to the worlds we make
Of our own design
Well this time around
I think I’ve finally found mine
This time around
I think I’ve finally found mine

Don’t quite know
Where I am
Where I’ve gone
Or where I’ll go again
All I know
Is I will go
Proudly

I’ll have my mind
My Set-In-Stones
No, they’re not yours
So, please, just leave them alone
You make these songs your own
They’re not about me

Because Song is a truth untold
Free from the shackles of Common Words
And of the weight they hold
Well, this time around
I think I finally let go
Well this time around
I think I finally let go.

SiMPLIFY

2007-07-25T18:33:16Z

Science and technology aim to simplify in one direction. The scientist seeks a more convenient theory, a proof, one thing which can explain everything… and the technologist works in that same direction, striving to construct a more perfect amplification of human effort. But then the other side, the island tribes, the hippies and the dreamers, they aim to simplify in the opposite direction. They’d rather not think in terms of theories. They’ve no want for science or for the complicated machine product of the technologists. A perfect deduction of human effort back to its source is what they seek.

I don’t believe either to be correct or completely flawed. They both have their valid viewpoints, but both fail to achieve any sort of lasting satisfaction. While one strives to live in the future, the other seems stuck in the past. The technologist dreams of tomorrow, the minimalist of yester years, and so both are unhappy with the world as it is today. I believe that the only space we can truly occupy is the present moment. And so, I will seek to simplify in “the now”, today, with a more balanced approach.

I aim to simplify somewhere in that middle ground. I believe that through a responsible application of reason, the fruits of technology can bring us to a new level of simplicity, a sort of valley between the two conventional schools of thought; a valley where senseless progress is not pursued in vain; where the new meets and then mends with the old. I really do believe that the technology of today and of the future can be applied with the same wisdom and precision seen in the Zen practices of antiquity. It just takes thought. Effort.

What does all of this have to do with the music of Ronnie Day? You may be curious to know… Well, …Absolutely nothing, in fact. I have always written my music in it’s own moment, from my own heart, independent of outside influence and financial motivation. I always will. This journey has nothing to do with the music of Ronnie Day and everything to do with the music related business practices of said entity. Excuse my use of the third person, but “Ronnie Day” is an article independent from you and me. “Ronnie Day” is most especially independent of the music that I create. That’s important to remember.

All that I’m trying to do with this venture, my sole objective, is to bring the business of the entity that is known as “Ronnie Day” closer to the ideals which I believe myself and my music to actually possess. I promise that all of this will start making sense to you very soon. With time…

I just feel like I’ve come to realize a new direction through a very complicated process of self-discovery, and I’d like all of you to have this same chance to adopt your own meaning as we enter into this new phase.

It all starts with thought, and so, here I am, taking a stab at provoking a bit of it.

........It’s coming soon…
........It’s called Simplify…
........It’s a celebration of virtue and…
........You’re all invited…

Art Credits: Fingers and Vil. (more on them, soon).

Leaving On A Jet Plane...

2007-07-19T15:09:54Z

I put some clothes on, doubtful as to whether or not I can make it through airport security in the green Manties I’ve been wearing. As it turns out, they almost stripped me naked at the check, anyhow. Fucking airports.

I don’t like airports. They’re all singing the same sad song this whole world over; they’re all singing the blues. But it’s not the sort of blues anybody would ever think of stealing off Limewire. The airport has a horrible voice; it lacks harmony and lyrical content. A choir of businessmen, all of them with those same black shoes, croons of the places they’ve been, of the next deal, of their collective vagrancy. And then, as counterpoint to this, a pack of vacationing nobodies talk about the things that they’re running from, and of the places they’re running to. It’s more than I can stand to hear, and so I hide inside of my headphones, behind sunglasses.

Then, sometimes one of you guys will recognize me in an airport. Because I’d rather be anywhere else just then and there, I look miserable, and you later tell me on myspace that I’ve let you down-- That I wasn’t the jovial Ronnie you knew in your head. It’s alright, I understand your side of things and I forgive you. Please, consider doing the same for me, should we ever meet in an airport… I hate the fucking airport.

Notwithstanding the foregoing, here I am, at Gate 40 with my brother Flex, and the woman on the intercom is calling our boarding number. Flex doesn’t fly much, and he is worried that they’ll leave without us. I know better, so I keep typing. See. Typing...

We’ll be three thousand miles away by this afternoon, and we’ll be heading into a bright new future, soon.
It’s Simplify.
It’s coming.
Stay tuned.

I've got a plane to catch.

Open Letter To Myself... (flatulence)

2007-07-11T07:24:36Z

I woke early and sat myself down in the midst of my recording paraphernalia. The bed from which I rose is not a bed, but rather a blanket on the floor, and save a single swivel chair, I have no other furniture. I place amplifiers atop larger amplifiers and hang my clothes on mic stands. While touring, I learned to favor sleeping on floors, and living in a van effectually taught me how very little I need to sustain myself.

With two large condenser microphones hovering on either side of my face, I tracked some vocals, and a harmonica solo, both in stereo. Sometimes it’s not enough to use just one microphone. Recording is about communication, and most people listen with two ears. So, as a producer, I usually try and speak to both (ears). Music is an ongoing dialogue between songwriters-- the song itself being a thought, and the performance, a voice. I voice my own thoughts as they come... No more, no less.

After I had finished the song, I packed a bag with some food and I went to the edge of town. Redwood City, as the name suggests, was at one time a lush forest. Then, as the San Francisco area grew, most everything was paved over and developed. There are, however, pockets of uncompromised woodland, thick with evergreen and undergrowth. One such sanctuary is mere miles from my house, and this is where I ventured to walk.

Before entering the woods, I passed a private horse stable. To my surprise, the horses in the yard had noticed me down the street before I'd even the chance to see them. They had heard my feet on the gravel, and by the time I came upon them, their eyes were fixed on me. In passing, I wondered what animal encounters I may yet spoil with my scratchy step.

Upon entering the park, I encountered a young deer, and because I sauntered softly, I discovered her at the same moment she looked up to me. Though, to be fair, she was busy grazing, while I was out decisively looking for deer.

We stood, the two of us, frozen in our own moment of time. The trees overhead still swayed, and unseen birds called out from far off, but the deer and I were not exactly a part of all that. We stood, eye-to-eye, ear-to-ear, and waited for something. I don’t know what the deer was waiting for, but I was waiting for her. What she would do, I didn’t know, and that’s exactly why I was waiting.

Staring at a deer across a field is a bit like meeting a pretty girl’s eye in a crowded room. There is something understood between the two of you, but neither knows just what it is, and time seems to slow. Then, some level of trust is determined-- you know her motive, she knows yours, and the room, again familiar, is restored to it’s previous pace.

My meeting with the deer in the wood was just like that. We stood perfectly still, locked in place, silently staring, and then, as if no time at all had passed, she went back to her grazing. She learned my motive, my mind, and like a girl out of my league, she walked off indifferently between the trees. I, too, walked on.

Before long, I came to cross a creek. In the winter, this would have been a border to my travel, but the rocks were dry as dust in the summer sun. I walked over them, and came to the other side. Then, for no reason at all, I stopped. I should say there was a small reason, but it was nothing about the woods around me.

I had thought back to younger days, when I'd heard older folk talk about the music of nature. “Stop,” they would say, “and listen... Just listen.” So, thinking of this, I stopped then and there, and I listened. On the far side of a dry creek, somewhere in the woods outside of town, I waited for the music of nature. Then, as no director of any theatre could have cued, nature took the stage.

A masculine squirrel scurried around the trunk of a redwood, and though he could weigh no more than my fist, his manner and muscle were well defined. Confidence would not begin to describe this character. He stopped, a brown knot, almost a part of the tree itself, and he gave me a glare that the toughest of gangsters could only hope to garner. I froze, not fearful, but genuinely amused. I made my best effort to keep a straight face, not wanting to laugh aloud and scare the squirrel.

He hurried around the trunk of the tree to face me in full, a small bicep on his arm taunt like that of a human. I did my best to appear dumbstruck by his powerful display, as I thought he would want me to be. He seemed less entertained than I, proceeding to do something I can only describe as screaming.

When I say screaming, I don’t mean it in the traditional sense. It was not a worried scream. He was screaming like the tattooed front man of some livid band, almost singing. I stood my ground. A bit confused, but mostly amused, I tried as best I could to understand what he was saying to me. It sounded a bit like, “fuck off,” but somehow more concise.

I didn’t fuck off, but rather stood there and tried to argue my reasons for being. I replied with my own imitation of the noises he was making, and he in turn spoke back to me. Just when it seemed I was beginning to understand his strange dialect, he added a new dimension to the conversation. He began to beat his small squirrel’s paw against the tree rhythmically.

I attempted to imitate this noise with my mouth, but found that I couldn’t keep time with his hasty meter. I beat my own hand against my leg, and he seemed to respond more favorably. Still, I couldn’t keep a beat nearly as precisely as he. I, who had come from a professional studio with metronomes and microphones, could not keep a groove as solid as a squirrel’s… And I’d argue that no musician could!

The squirrel went on to combine rhythm and scream in fascinating patterns, and I made a poor attempt at imitating him, until eventually, I conceded the territory and allowed him his space. When I had gone, he called out several times in a different tone, and I’ve no doubt that it was the squirrel’s equivalent of our own “I told you so.”

Farther into the woods, I found a great purple bird with a wingspan greater than my arms. I had no chance to communicate with this bird, though. I had only seen it in its flight from me, and then it was gone. In gesture, it reminded me of a great artist--a solitary spirit of the forest, above any attempt to commune with a common man.

I continued down the path, and heard every now and then the dry scurry of leaves as a lizard ran against the sound of my feet. I heard the calls of birds, and the flutter of leaves in the wind, all of it interlaced in a dedicated discourse. Then, I heard something very distant.

The hum of an airplane motor cut through the woodland like a pollutant, leaving every living thing silent and standing. The hum had no soul, no spirit-- no groove. Any musician anywhere could have imitated it’s sound with the mindless buzzing of his or her own lips. This hum, I thought, represented everything vile and decadent of man’s indifference to the world.

Man does not listen. Man has no ears, but to hear the sound of his own voice. It is not ego, for ego is only natural. The deer had ego enough to move on, and the squirrel to fight… But man’s ego is bruised. Like the son of a wealthy name, Man is born into privilege, with airplanes for inheritance, and he feels that he will never reach the status of this name. Man. He must progress, he must concur and procure power, all the while ignoring the sound of even his own heartbeat. It’s time that we as men think for a moment about the other voices of the world.

Fruit begs for planting, placing it’s seed in as appetizing a front as any advertising campaign. The vegetable gives so charitably oxygen, which we breathe, taking our exhaled air and asking nothing but for this commune in exchange. Why, then, do we corral pigs against their squealing, fence cows against their crooning, and slaughter the lot to the sounds of their collective screams? Though it is not my place to judge anybody for his or her eating habits, I do feel inclined to judge a man for his indifference to the facts.

Fact: You stand bemused by the great writers of our time and of times past, not only in prose, but in paint and pen and song. You say that their truth, as they see it, resonates more so than any other, and remark upon their powers of observation. Yet, You do not understand it-- that communication is a two-fold process-- that true genius does not come from the internal, nor the external, but both holistically.

It’s time we listen to the world around us—to the wind in the trees, to the sound of a distant dove. The deer and the horses know that they cannot graze without listening for footsteps on the gavel below. It is time we face this reality, too. It is time we learn to think before we speak, and listen before we think…

The whole world round is filled with the music of mirth, the sounds of certainty. In our cities, we fail to hear it’s singing, opting instead for the farts of passing cars. We gossip amongst ourselves and seek the advice of self-appointed fashion demigods. Take a moment away from your closet, and look inside of that thing upon which you hang your modish clothes. Listen to the voice of your own mind, and hear in it the echo of the earth, too.

The human distinction is our ability to reason, and with that ability comes a great responsibility. If you do not wish to bear the burden of your own mind, then submit yourself to the fate of cattle. Place yourself within the pin of your own ignorance, and bring your flesh daily to the slaughterhouse that is submission.

If you say that this is all too much to think about, that it’s too difficult and philosophical… If you say you’re afraid of the dark, well then maybe it’s time to open your eyes and see light, you idiot. Life is to be lived, not bought, not won, not borrowed, stolen or pawned.

True virtue knows no excuse.

Communicate. Listen, learn, and love that you may live.

A Thought Upon Waking...

2007-07-06T21:05:00Z

.
...........Man does not fear the unknown, for that is hope;
...........he is bound only by the denial of those few things he is truthfully sure of.

[ ... ]

.

A Real Woman

2007-06-29T10:35:11Z

someday i will find a Real woman
with Long hair and lucid eyes
like yours, only Real

or like a sandstone splashed up
by some sacred swell of the salty sea
She will be, and Be completely.

yes.

Destiny.

someday i will find a Real woman
with character and core
like yours, only more

and She will sing when She speaks
commonplace symphonies

and listening,
i’ll finally sleep
i’ll have my dream.
I Will Have My Dream.

Of Moths and Men...

2007-06-25T19:39:32Z

I’m not in the habit of tinkering with the lives of other creatures. You won’t find me shooting deer dead in the woods, spraying pesticide, or even mowing the lawn, for that matter. Now, the lawn thing… That might be laziness, but the principal still stands. I don’t assume it’s my place to play man-god, and I always seek to achieve a happy equilibrium with the world around me.

Until this morning, I thought I was doing quite well. I’ve been practicing veganism for some time, I haven’t driven my car once, opting instead to ride a bicycle, and I’ve even been petting my dogs more frequently. But it seems trouble finds a way to penetrate even the most humble of existences. I’m afraid I’ve found trouble… Worse, I fear that I may have mistakenly managed to manipulate the evolution of an entire species while heating my herbal tea.

The other day, during the early hours of my morning (which, mind you, are not so early), I went to the kitchen for a calming cup of tea. Being a product of this lively modern world, I wanted my tranquility post-haste, so I decided to microwave the water. I filled my dish at the sink, and went to place it in the microwave. Then, just as I was closing the door, a moth flew inside.

“Damnit,” said I to the moth “get out of the fucking microwave.”

The moth did nothing.

I opened the small plastic door, and tried to gently usher the moth away from certain death. The moth beat its wings ineffectually, silently bouncing from one wall to another, avoiding the open door at all cost. I became more aggressive in my attempts, and after much flailing of my arm, saw the microwave to be moth-free. I then closed the door and started the clock.

After a minute had clicked past, I returned to the microwave. I stood a few feet back, a safe distance, and tried to catch a glimpse of the water inside. I get a bit superstitious over microwave ovens. I’ve no idea how they work, but I’m convinced that they send out harmful… things… Bad vibes, or cancer beams… I’m not sure, but anything involving radiation makes my nerves twitch a bit. It’s just one of those things.

From my vantage point, the water seemed to be boiling, so I stepped forward and opened the door. Just then, the moth came whizzing out. He had been hiding in there all along.

“Damnit, Moth,” I said aloud, and then stopped, bemused.

Watching that moth fly around the room, I felt as if I’d seen a small miracle. He had gone to the other side, into the hellfire core of that electric inferno, and he had come back again, unscathed. I’ve heard that ants can survive a stay in the microwave, but ants do so many amazing things that it only seemed logical. A stupid, flimsy moth, though? This seemed truly remarkable, and a few days later, it only became more so.

I saw my mom in the kitchen, placing glasses of ice in the cabinets. And then, upon closer inspection, saw that they were not glasses of ice, but rather mothballs.

“Yeah,” she said, “fucking moths.”

Fucking moths, indeed. From one mutant, microwaved moth, an entire moth army had descended. And they were colonizing, too. They found the closets, other cabinets—I even found a moth inside of my guitar case.

My mom laced our entire house with mothballs; so many, in fact, that I’m convinced they’ve caused me to have health problems… But that’s no skin off a moth’s back. Sometimes the damn things will hang out right there inside of a cup full of mothballs, just to fuck with you, like some moth method of psychological warfare.

Well I’ve had enough. I can’t take any more of this moth madness. I was just trying to live a calm, quiet life. I was beginning to feel like everything was alright, and that I could achieve goodness. Well, I was wrong.

I opened a can of worms, or moths, or something much ickier than either, and all I was trying to do was enjoy a calming cup of tea… Thus is the fault of man.

Home.

2007-06-21T21:54:56Z

For the past year I had been on the move-- from one show to the next, one scene to another. Every town has a derelict club or two, and most people have spent at least one glum night in the crowd. Well, I spent every night in every crowd. I’ve seen the back room to the back room. I’ve taken dumps in dozens of door-less bathrooms. I even pissed in a trashcan by the merch booth, once.

That environment can bring out the best and worst in me. The bright lights, the booze, the bad music and the broads can become quite disorienting. Eventually, I had forgotten why I left home in the first place. I’d forgotten all about home. I let my friends, my family, and everything that had once defined my life (save music) decay. Then, even the music part of my life started to die. Epic Records dropped me from their roster and cut all of our funding.

So, a year into what was becoming an endless tour, I called my manager and canceled the rest of my dates. I caught the first flight home, and upon arrival found things to be mostly as I had left them. The streets bore their proper names, parks and buildings were mostly accounted for and our friend, Fingers, came to live with us again. Even my dogs remembered their ritual and slept in my bed with me that first night. The same can’t be said for another expected guest…

Dogs don’t demand loyalty. They don’t mind a lapse in love. The only thing my dogs care about is food, sleep, and the occasional dip in our hot tub. Girls are a different thing altogether. A girl is a human being, and so a girl will have certain wants and needs. Boys, being something just shy of human, are inattentive and often neglect the needs of their more amiable counterparts. And to say that I may have overlooked some of my partner’s needs is an understatement. I would soon discover that many things had indeed changed while I was gone.

Change can be a frightening concept, especially when its evidence is presented all at once. Over the course of a year, the changes I have undergone may not have seemed at all remarkable. But because they were all happening in a static environment, it wasn’t until I stopped that I took notice. I came home to a world I had known, and all at once discovered it through a new perspective; alone and grown.

Recently I’ve been riding a bike around town, listening to music and allowing myself to find comfort and stability. I’m not going to wake up in another town, I tell myself. I am here, and will be here again tomorrow, and probably a few days past that, even. I can be here as long as I want to be here.

I wear shorts and sandals, shirtless and liberated atop the extra-wide gel seat of a woman’s bicycle, my mother’s. As I ride through familiar streets, listening to nostalgic music, I reflect and readjust. People stare at me from their cars, confused looks upon their faces. Some kids laugh and point at my clothing, probably making note of the woman’s bike, but I don’t mind.

In my head I’ve taken a bit of Venice Beach home with me, and it’s perfectly acceptable to be dressed this way. In my head I’ve also taken a bit of Manhattan with me, where everybody is who they are, and if ya don’t like that, then ya can go fuck ya’self, pal.

I’ll always carry these bits of my travels with me, and I’ll continue to explore the world and muse upon all of the possibilities before me. But whenever it becomes too much, whenever we forget who we are, and where we’ve been, and just how it is that everything happened, that’s the right time to return home.

I am home, now. I lost a friend, and as always happens and always will happen, I’ve lost the past. But I’m starting to gain new perspective on the future, and more important still, the moment I’m living in right now.

…And if you were wondering, aside from riding my mother’s bike around town, I’m quite busy right now. I’m working through a pile of some seventy-something songs, transcribing them into the computer and recording demos for all of them. I’m also launching a new kind of record label, and hope to see that taking shape by the end of this summer. Oh, and I’ll be changing my name again, because people in my profession do that. So, hang tight, be well, and enjoy your summer.

ronnieday @ 2007-06-16T15:04:00

2007-06-16T22:08:08Z

My heart tumbles around inside of me like a spare tire in the trunk of a rusty old car. My blood burns under the taunt skin of my neck, and I can’t stop swallowing spit. I’m a mess inside, a tangled network of nerves and bone. Where most have fingernails I have swollen, red reminders of my own restlessness. And all of this, (and more, still), kept quiet behind a suntan and a smile.

I’ve done things
Of which I am not proud

And neither am I
Wrong or right
For knowing now

The truth
Or something tantamount.

This is a karmic body count.
This is a karmic body count.

[I am sorry. I am sorry. Let my work and the good I have set out to bring to this world be proof of that sentiment.]

ronnieday @ 2007-06-05T04:04:00

2007-06-05T11:13:48Z

I don't know that it ever felt as real as it looks in pictures.
Some people black out when they drink too much, but I don't.
The only moments that slip past me are those spent on the stage,
and I don't know where they go or even how.

ronnieday @ 2007-06-02T13:54:00

2007-06-02T20:58:49Z

Whenever I think of my life in terms of a road or a path traveled along, I have this vision that comes to mind of a small dirt trail, walked many times before, and set between redwoods and undergrowth. Robert Frost said it would be a yellow wood, but mine isn’t quite like that. My woods are deep and dark. The light breaks in beams through the trees, uncounted millions of redwood trees, with leaves as dark and green as algae on the ocean floor-- the bark below brown as otter’s fur. And a small path cuts through, bending gently on and into the endless.

I walk this wood, a lonely wood, and look out through the ivy and the heather. I look into it as one looks into a lake or a puddle, straining to catch sight of something underneath. I never see anything there, but sometimes I hear things. I’ll hear the wind in the trees or a howl echoed someplace far off, and I’ll sing to myself. I’ll stop and curl up with a guitar or a piano and I’ll sing myself safe.

Then, other times, when the sun’s gone down and the moon is little to be seen—when darkness is all around and inside like ink--I hear everything. The crickets, the ants, their thoughts and my own.

I brought someone to these woods, once. Though they’re mine, solitary and confined within my own head, I brought somebody there, just once. I don’t know how it is that somebody can get inside of you like that, but she was there. Looking into her eyes, kissing her lips and loving her holistically seemed to complete a sort of circuit. I would walk that path by her side, and she kept me safe and I her.

When the sun went down and darkness came all around and inside like ink, she was there, too. I was not lost, and I did not hear everything at once. I heard her and she heard me, and I would sing songs for her on my piano or my guitar.

Whenever I think of my life in terms of a road or path traveled along, I can’t help but think of her with me in that place. She was there, she came inside and for five years was a part of me. Now, I hear nothing, absolutely nothing and it scares me more than any echoed howl. I hear absolutely nothing, and I’ve nowhere and everywhere at once to go.

Evolution...

2007-06-01T10:39:29Z

People have evolved quite well. No, we don’t have razor sharp teeth, nor do we tote tails, talons or claws, but we have gained some quite favorable advantages. For example, we’ve large imaginations and the always-amazing opposable thumb—quite a brilliant pairing, especially when one takes into consideration male masturbation. Whilst other species are busy surviving, we humans can kick back and enjoy a savage spanking. Life is good… but never good enough.

See, that’s the problem with us. We’ve got it good-- better than most, in fact-- but we still don’t have it all. Our enormous and oftentimes envious imaginations are constantly thinking up something better, someplace else… And because of this, we’re troubled with trivial human emotion. Now, this in and of itself wouldn’t be such a design flaw. If we didn’t desire better, we would have never come out of the trees and into apartments. It’s quite possible that we’d have been killed off long ago without such emotions, but there is yet one key flaw.

To take you back inside of my own imagination for a moment, consider again male masturbation. …Any masturbation, for that matter; picture fleshy, finger fashioned hands hard at work. A vision of true evolutionary brilliance, is it not? But now, paint a slightly different picture; envision an emotional human being trying to masturbate. Can’t do it? No? That’s because it’s impossible! And this is our one downfall as a species (or the only one I’m concerned with, anyway).

When a girlfriend has dumped us, when we’re all alone and feeling blue, what one thing could brighten the day? A good beat session could... The problem is, whenever we’re feeling this way, our minds run ramped with lousy thoughts and the only thing an opposable thumbs good for is grabbing Cleanex (tears).

I demand a step forward in evolution. This is a call out to anybody capable of masturbating through tough times: we need your genes! The good news is, if you’re so horny as to have this capability, you’re probably reproducing like wildfire. I suppose it’s just a matter of time before everything works itself out. And that’s evolution...

Driving in Upstate NY

2007-05-16T00:30:30Z

Behind glass and lost in the music of my car stereo, I run like something wild down the interstate. The road is black as mud in a cave, and to either side of it, a foamy blue grass waves gently… silently. Beyond the grass, covering countless miles of delicate hillside, a variety of trees and shrubs live harmoniously. The trees are a form of pure beauty. These trees, both green and yellow contrasted, and bright, like life, are in themselves beauty. They need not be explained in length with adjectives or sung of in a song; that would be ineffectual. No words, or for that matter, anything else a human being could do, would serve them truthfully. They are green. Pure green… like happiness, or luck or like indifference… green like truth… and to the black road between them, and to the people on that road, they are green like envy—envy because they are perfect, and we are not.

As I drive through those trees, between that off-blue grass on either side of that dead, black asphalt road, I think to myself, silently. I wonder if nature is intrinsically beautiful, or whether it is beautiful to us only because we think of it as thus. I think, maybe, that nature must be beautiful, that all forms of life recognize this fact and that this is why they chose to live in harmony. But then, I wonder, why is it that human beings have fought so passionately against the rest. Why is it that we destroy one thing, nature, and in it’s place erect our own cheap imitations? We grow potted plants, and keep pet dogs, and bring water into our own homes, but we have our own homes and they are closed and safe. In these homes, we cover walls with paintings of the world, and craft cabinets of actual grained wood, but we do not live in the woods. We do not want for the wind and the trees and the sun upon our faces. We want for our sanctuary, our own sanctuary and not that of the world.

Oh, but we love the world, I think. We love it like a young child loves it’s mother. We love it because we need it, but that is not really love. Families run to the woods for camping trips in nylon tents, and they sit around fire pits and remark on the beauty of it all. But that is not love, that is a cheap fuck. Then, some men claim to love nature so much that they move thousands of miles from the cities to live on a ranch. They raise cattle and herd them across the prairie on the backs of horses, wearing leather hats and chewing beef jerky. They live off of that land with other animals, caring for horses and for cattle, protecting them and feeding them and loving them… But then, they take their animals and they kill them, so that for a small fee somebody else can eat the flesh, which is not even flesh in their mind, but is a “steak”, or a “hamburger”, and they can justify it by saying that it’s only “natural”, that other animals eat each other, too. But, I think to myself in the car, when is the last time you saw another animal mounting a horse or milking an utter? When is the last time you’ve seen an animal masturbate another specie’s penis, and shove a cum covered arm down a cows vagina? The rancher does not love nature, I think. Humanity does not love nature.

But I love nature, I think, as my synthetic rubber tires kick gravel to the side of the road. I love nature, I think over the hum of a gasoline engine and noise from an electric stereo. But I know it’s not true. I don’t love nature, and neither does anybody else. It’s beyond me, and it’s green and it’s good, and I am small and I am envious and I will die some day, and I can not accept that. Nature will never die, though… because death is but a small part of life, natural life, and a natural progression will kill us off soon. Our cars and our fumes and our greed, green like so many trees, will grow, and will eventually collapse in upon itself. And then, like a single black road between the ashes of so many green and envious souls, a new life will drive on. Pray that it doesn’t violate, as I have, the perfection of nature with futile words and thoughts and songs.

Leave a message after the blurb...

2007-05-07T22:50:54Z

Swim in the Atlantic Ocean at three in the morning completely naked under the moon and the stars and a sky whose limitless immensity is rivaled only by the water in which you wade, and call out to your brother who swims in that nothingness with you, also naked, and be something there and then, floating and turning and never staying in one place—be something, together.

Run between the purple shadows of unknown and foreign buildings at twilight. Run with the breeze blowing all about and a good friend beside you, and talk about the things which you’ve seen together. Let the words slip out quickly and quietly between the breath like an afterthought, a staccato soundtrack to some other unsaid thing in the air, some thing that means much more than any words could... and be free, together.

Then, miss somebody so desperately that you feel it in the corners of your eyes like tears, but there are none, and in the top of your throat like something to swallow, but there is nothing, and in your chest like a bruise. Let the pain of that loneliness keep you awake at night, awake on the side of some freeway somewhere, and let the cars drive by and hiss and whistle and think of all the places they are going to, and of the people they’re going home to, and think of how you are going nowhere and fast. Then call her, and hear her voice like something very real and close and be hurt, together.

But don’t open your computer. Don’t log onto the Internet, and don’t write anything for anyone, not even for yourself. They are not swimming in the Ocean, and they are not running under the setting sun, and yes, they are missing you, and they are missing you together, but not like a bruise or like the whisper of a passing car. They miss you like a television show that got canceled, or like a store that closed. …And You, You miss Them like an old man misses the reflection of his younger self in the mirror, which is not productive, so forget about it and live. Together, lets live.

Dirty...

2007-04-13T01:11:12Z

It used to be that I would wear a pair of jeans for months without a wash. Underwear was swapped out daily, and T-shirts were changed according to that day’s activities and their own respective stink and stains. Socks would be exchanged every day without exception, but they would never match. I kept myself fresh, if not fashionable. But that was years ago, before I’d ever been on tour, before I had hair on my chest and before my armpits and my ass came into their stinky, sweaty prime.

Now, jeans (which I own a single pair of) are not washed. Not ever. T-Shirts are cycled out every couple of days, and are not placed in any baskets for cleaning, but are instead sprayed with Fabreeze and left to hang in the equipment trailer for re-wearing at a later date. Socks, when they can be found, are powdered and sprayed often, and are worn thin and stiff. Everything I wear is pre-won. On the road, clean clothes are as far out and foreign as dreams of home and a night in your own bed. Recently, though, I’ve been discovering a whole new world through a simple change of wardrobe; a world with sights, scents and sensations both strange and wonderful.

While browsing the shelves at Wal-Mart during a pit stop, I decided to grab a cheap pair of cotton short shorts, a thin, sleeveless shirt and some 99-cent flip-flops. I also grabbed a tube of Wet Wipes and a huge bottle of Baby Powder. Then, with arms full, I walked to checkout. After a brief chat with the clerk, and a brisk walk across the parking lot, I had one of my new bandmates, Scott, lock me in the equipment trailer. My jeans, heavy and damp like a car-shop grease rag, my warm undies, my mismatched socks and wrinkled shirt were tossed to a corner, and I stood there naked. It was cold, so I hesitated for a moment like a kid on the side of a pool. Then, I grabbed for the wipes, and started scrubbing myself from neck to toe. Arms… Cleaned. Legs… Cleaned. Chest, neck, back… Cleaned, cleaned cleaned. Ass, balls, armpits, and feet… Not cleaned. One more wipe… And then another, and a few more. Eventually, everything was cleansed, and I reached for a bottle of scented moisturizer. As my naked body began to adopt a new glassy shine, I heard the handle of the door rattle, and was then blinded as a burst of light filled the trailer.

Kenji, another member of the band, was standing silhouetted in the doorframe, strange people walking behind him throughout the parking lot, and I stood there with both of my hands cupped over my genitalia, knees crooked inward, wide-eyed and greasy. He laughed and did nothing. For what seemed like a minute solid, and probably was, he just stood there with the door wide, laughing. A couple of people looked towards us, and then immediately fixed their eyes on the pavement before them. I turned and went back to my moisturizing, and Kenji eventually climbed inside of the trailer, grabbed whatever he had come for, and then left me to finish my bathing.

Cleaned, moisturized, and slightly ashamed, I took the Baby Powder in one hand, and dashed it upon my feet, my buttocks, my balls, and that stretch between the two. Then, I powdered both armpits, and threw a little into the air around me for good measure. I applied deodorant, then deodorizing spray, and then brushed my teeth, too. Already feeling anew, I dressed in my shorts, sandals and stylized shirt. It felt good…

It felt real good, like a shower after you’ve spent the day at the beach, or like wiping the boogies from your eyes in the sleepy morning. I was a new man, released from the shackles of standard shoe, from shirt and from stink. The soft kiss of a breeze through the hair of my legs caused a shiver to run up my spine and out onto my bare, sleeveless arms. I felt complete and alive. I felt human once again. But, as I would soon discover, less is not always best.

While taking a moment to relive myself upon the back tire of the van, I found that all my life, Pants had been taking bullets for me, small, silent, splashing bullets of piss. Even later, in the bathroom urinal, the piss mist persisted, splashing up onto my bare ankles and feet. So, after some experimenting, I resorted to urinating in the proper stall toilets. But then, when I had fixed that problem and believed my outfit to be once again perfect, my feet and my flip-flops started fighting, and the flip-flops were winning. Blisters and cuts formed between my first two toes. I walked it off... Eventually, these wounds would heal, and my feet grew calloused and tough, but I was still dirty and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it.

I was dirty, alright; filthy, half-naked, and comfortable as a dog rolling in its own shit. Dirty like a folding camp chair, like a baseball, like a finger-painting… I was dirty, I am dirty, and I’ll always be dirty.

As long as I am comfortable, I am content. That’s all that matters, now. That’s all that ever has.

I don’t need designer shirts, pants and plucked eyebrows. I don’t even need a real shower every day. And if you think that’s gross, just remember that you, in your fancy pants, those fancy pants all covered in negligible speckles of piss and dust, are dirty, too. We’re all dirty, so lets get in shorts and sandals and live in it. Let’s jump in a puddle or two, sleep on floors, and spill beers on our shirts. Dust to Dust, it’s all those little stains we collect along the way that make us who we are.

"Sell It, Baby."

2007-03-27T21:59:58Z

We just shot six(6) videos in two(2) days. These videos will be part of a series for MTVu (The Ronnie Day Project), and should be available online, soon. After a full weekend of shooting, I think I'm finally getting used to cameras:

(cheese)